


only the sweetest words remain

by and_hera



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Early Mornings, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Dancing, no beta we die like men, this is entirely self indulgent, this is literally just andreil being soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_hera/pseuds/and_hera
Summary: pipe dream. noun.a boy with a too-big too-bright smile and narrowed, calculating eyes that know every exit and legs always tense and poised and ready to run. a boy you will not be allowed to keep.But, for whatever reason, Andrew was allowed to keep him.or, Andrew and Neil in winter.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 18
Kudos: 217





	only the sweetest words remain

**Author's Note:**

> this entire fic is just soft andreil during the winter when they're on different exy teams  
> the song for this fic is chasing cars by snow patrol, but the title is from turning page by sleeping at last!! i hope you enjoy, and if you like it, kudos and comments are appreciated <3

❄

No matter how many times he does it, Andrew appreciates when Neil comes back home.

Maybe it’s because he feared he would run for so long, maybe it’s because he never thought a pipe dream would ever be real, maybe it’s because the apartment is quiet without him there to fill the silence.

Andrew would never say this to Neil. 

Sometimes, he tastes something on the tip of his tongue, a three word phrase. One Andrew has never heard before, not really. One he has never wanted to say.

Neil closes the door behind him, his hair mussed from the cold December wind, his eyes bright. He’s wearing the gloves with the grip Dan got for him and the god-awful orange hoodie Nicky bought for him (Andrew has a matching one in his closet, and if he wears it when Neil’s gone, that’s no one’s business). 

And there it is again. Three words, three syllables, one unforgivable phrase.

“Must you go for a run every day?” Andrew says instead, because it’s easier.

Neil shrugs. “It’s a habit,” he replies. He goes to the kitchen to make himself coffee, Andrew presumes.

Andrew looks back at the television in front of him, not really watching the game. He’s seen it before, anyway— well, that’s a lie. He was there. If he squints, he can see a bit of his blond hair peeking from behind the helmet of the goalkeeper on the screen. But he’s more focused on the clattering behind him in the kitchen and decidedly not looking at it.

Another thing Andrew will never tell Neil: how much he misses him.

For most of this year, Neil has been absent. Playing exy, always, always. As he should. As he must.

But Andrew lives for these days, for these weeks, for these months off. When it’s winter and their teams have to let them go home for the holidays.

If he’s being honest, Andrew doesn’t really care for his apartment. He doesn’t care enough about it to hate it, but he doesn’t like it, either. If he’s being honest, Andrew thinks, sometimes, about getting a place someday. When they’re on the same team. When they’re together. If he’s being honest, Andrew would be fine anywhere, as long as Neil is with him.

Andrew only turns his head from the television when he feels a weight on the end of the couch. Neil has his eyes closed, letting steam from his mug of black coffee breeze across his face.

Andrew’s treacherous, traitorous mind thinks 

_beautiful, beautiful, beautiful._

Andrew hates him. Neil.

(lies, whispers that same part of his mind.

because the only thing andrew hates about one neil abram josten is

that he doesn’t hate him.

not really.

that neil made a home in his apartment and heart and isn’t leaving.

that neil stays.)

“Yes or no,” Neil says, glancing at all the space between them on the couch.

“Yes,” Andrew replies easily. Neil slides closer, letting their legs touch. Neil drinks his coffee.

Andrew takes the mug from his hand like he would a cigarette on a college rooftop and takes a sip. He frowns. “How do you not use creamer,” he says, quieter than he needs to be. “This is disgusting.”

Neil hums, taking the mug back, leaning into Andrew’s side. “Didn’t have creamer growing up. Never grew a taste for it.”

Andrew leans in too, just a little. He fixes his eyes firmly on a spot on the wall above the television.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” Neil says softly. “I,” he starts, and sighs. “These days are everything to me, Drew.”

Andrew leans in more, putting his head on top of Neil’s. “They are,” he begins, trying to agree but suddenly his voice rougher than it should be. “I missed you too,” he says instead. “Stay.”

“I’m staying,” Neil says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything, but he feels himself sink down into the couch, into Neil. 

When did he get this soft, he wonders. It wasn’t long ago that one touch would guarantee you a knife in the gut.

And then, Neil.

❄

Neil walks into their apartment, face flushed and ears pink. He’s only wearing a small jacket, which Andrew thinks is ridiculous, but he doesn’t seem to mind the cold. The twenty-something degree cold. The there-is-at-least-two-inches-of-snow-on-the-ground cold.

Andrew hates him. Neil fucking Josten.

“I had a good run,” Neil says, pulling off a hat to reveal his beautifully mussed red hair.

Andrew hums in agreement, already pulling out a second mug. He starts making coffee.

Neil walks up next to him, jostling his hip ever-so-slightly as he opens a cabinet next to him. “Gonna make eggs.”

“I will,” Andrew says, and Neil raises an eyebrow. Andrew sighs. “I will,” he repeats, “because I don’t trust you anywhere near the stove.”

Neil smiles, a real, genuine thing, and Andrew feels a bit of ice brought about by the cold melt.

“I only broke the stove one time, Drew, but whatever,” Neil says, shaking his head disappointedly. He starts to slowly turn and walk out of the kitchen. “Oh, well. Guess I’ll go watch—“

“Don’t say it.”

“—exy while you make us breakfast.” Andrew feels the barest trace of a smile on his face, and he grabs the bottom of Neil’s hoodie before he can walk away. 

“Stay,” he says.

Neil allows himself to be spun and dragged back to Andrew’s side and it’s clear he never really intended on leaving the kitchen. He drops his forehead on Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew loops a hand around his waist. He thinks about the unforgivable phrase, mouths the words into Neil’s hair.

“I still want eggs,” Neil murmurs, his voice muffled, and Andrew kisses his head before moving to pour coffee.

“I’ll make your damn eggs,” he says. 

He would up the percentage, but he forgot what he was at a long time ago. He forgot what he was measuring a long time ago.

Neil takes one mug for himself and hands the Christmas-themed creamer and exactly four sugar packets to Andrew. He sits back on the counter, kicking his feet against the cupboards beneath it, sipping his coffee.

Andrew is frozen for a minute (and if Neil asks, he simply didn’t appreciate how cold his fingers are, that’s all) because he always seems to forget how Neil knows him. How Neil knows exactly how he makes his coffee, even when Andrew usually makes it before he’s back from his run.

Andrew feared being known— he still does, really— but maybe, if it’s the man who stays. But maybe, if it’s the man drinking his black coffee whose nose is still red from the windchill.

Maybe, if it’s Neil, things aren’t so bad.

❄

Andrew remembers his first day back from Easthaven as well as he remembers every day of his life— that is, with crystal clear images and one hundred percent accuracy.

He remembers walking out of the room that was his absolute hell and locking eyes with Neil Josten, the runner, the liar, the boy. He remembers seeing cuts and bruises painting his face. He remembers red hair and piercing blue eyes, the same as the ones from Columbia, the same shade his manic self committed to memory. He remembers turning and walking away.

He remembers that night, sitting on the roof, smoking. He had no emotion, a blank expression and even blanker mind, because if he let himself feel anything besides fear of falling from this height, he’d remember everything from the month he just survived, remember everything from the months spent in a daze with exy and Columbia the only reprieve. And he didn’t want— he couldn’t— go through all that then.

He remembers Neil Josten sitting behind him, taking his cigarette and breathing in the smoke.

And God, _here_ was something that made him feel. Something he feared and wanted so, _so_ badly he could barely breathe.

He took the cigarette back.

And in a moment of rare feeling, a moment of rare weakness brought on from the height of the roof or maybe Neil’s eyes, Andrew had said, “you are a pipe dream.”

 **pipe dream. noun.**

an unattainable or fanciful hope.

Hope. Neil. There’s another four letter, one syllable word, that Andrew doesn’t dare say, doesn’t dare think.

**pipe dream. noun.**

a boy with a too-big too-bright smile and narrowed, calculating eyes that know every exit and legs always tense and poised and ready to run. a boy you will not be allowed to keep.

But, for whatever reason, Andrew was allowed to keep him.

❄

Neil has his arms draped over Andrew’s shoulders and Andrew has his arms wrapped around Neil’s waist. They sway.

A song is playing from Neil’s phone, a soft one about laying here and forgetting the world. Andrew, eidetic memory and all, isn’t sure how they made it to here, slow dancing in the kitchen, but strangely, he doesn’t mind.

The whole scene is oddly domestic and sweet. Andrew didn’t know he was allowed domestic, didn’t know he was allowed sweet. People like him were all rough edges, all knives and bloody fists.

But Neil is, too. Neil is muscles tensed for a fight and feet flying across pavement and scars he pretends not to care about. 

During one of his last sessions with her, Betsy had told him this: beautiful stories are written about broken people.

“That’s oddly poetic, Bee,” Andrew had said, “are you feeling alright?”

Andrew doesn’t know if he wants any stories written about him, about him and Neil. He doesn’t know if anyone would read them. He doesn’t know if anyone would understand them.

He shifts closer to Neil until their foreheads touch. Neil’s eyes flutter shut.

He thinks about three words, three syllables, one unforgivable phrase.

“I love you,” Andrew says. Unforgivable.

Neil’s eyes blink back open, but not quickly, not worried, not surprised. He meets his gaze. 

“I love you too,” he says.

Neil meets him where he is, Andrew thinks. They continue swaying.

Neil’s eyes close again, and this time Andrew closes his too, listening to the music and feeling Neil’s breath on his mouth. 

The taste of the words on his tongue is just a little sweeter.

❄


End file.
